Whiskey
by graysonsflight
Summary: In the six months since Dick Grayson left his old life behind in the swirling winter that swallowed his best friend, his adventures have left him wandering through Eastern Europe. But among the new jobs, new places, and new seedy hole-in-the-walls, the only thing that remains constant is his loneliness. Who would have thought a bar fight was going to change all that?


Dick took another sip of his beer. It wasn't great, but it was cheap, and it was just strong enough to take the edge off. He looked around the crowded dive bar and sighed. At least fifty or so people were packed in around him and he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but wholly alone. He took another sip of his drink. Bruce would be so angry with him right now. Only he wouldn't use the word "angry." Instead, the older man would take a deep breath, squint his eyes just a little bit, and let Dick know that his actions were unacceptable. He would make it clear that he was _disappointed_ in the choices Dick had made _._ But it would be disappointment in his _choices_ not in _him_ , and honestly, right now, that probably made things worse. Dick shuddered in the horrible lighting before bringing the drink to his lips and finishing it. This was the exact reason he was drinking.

It had been six months since he had left Gotham. Six months since his world had crumbled at his feet for the second time. But this time, Dick hadn't been a child. This time, Dick had had a bit more of a choice in how he handled the loss. This time, instead of doing everything he could to honor what he'd lost, Dick had run. He eyed his empty glass with some skepticism. It hadn't done nearly as good a job at dulling the pain as he'd hoped.

Setting the glass back down, Dick reached his hands back to redo his ponytail. It wasn't too long, and it was still clean, despite all the moving around he'd been doing. While he'd been with the circus, he'd just let it grow. The women he'd worked with insisted it added a bit of trouble to him. He'd laughed then. After he'd left the circus, he just hadn't had the time to cut it – his new job keeping him fairly busy most nights, and pretty tried during normal waking hours. Besides, the ladies there seemed to like it as well.

The bartender stopped in front of Dick with a smile, placing a hand on his empty glass. The man was well built and had quite the impish smirk. He was half the reason Dick kept coming back to this place.

"You ready for something stronger, Pretty Boy?"

Dick put on his most charming smile; just because he wasn't happy didn't mean he had to act like it.

"Tips weren't as good tonight," he said shrugging. The bartender, _Isaac_ , laughed incredulously.

"Aye, I'm sure your pretty face has a hard time separating the ladies from their money." Dick just smiled with another shrug.

"Another beer's fine." But Isaac shook his head.

"Oh no, I'm not going to sit back and watch you drink this piss when it's so obvious you're in a mood." Dick was about to protest, to argue, but Isaac just waved him off and turned his back.

Dick sighed shortly, closing his eyes. While he did feel like shit, he didn't want other people to be able to read it; he was losing his edge – he'd have to work on that. Opening his eyes, Dick easily brought his smile back.

"'Ere you go," Isaac said setting Dick's new drink down with a flourish. It was a small glass filled with amber liquor, a single large ice cube, and a stick of cinnamon.

"What is this?" Dick asked, but he was pretty sure he already knew. His breath caught in his throat as a memory came back to him.

"You Yanks are so adorable," Isaac laughed at him, not seeing the way Dick's eyes clouded over. "It's whiskey, the good kind – not that trash your people make in the states. Go on, it'll burn all the way down."

Dick faked a smile again, bringing the glass to his lips. He tasted the cinnamon and felt the fire of the drink. It did everything Isaac had promised; it burned all the way down.

"There you go!" Isaac called, approvingly. The bartender laughed and promised he'd be back to check on Dick (although he knew him as Danny) in a little bit.

Whiskey had never been something Dick chose to drink on his own, although he was intimately familiar with the taste. He'd had little sips before, but his favorite way to taste it was off the lips of someone else. Still alone, Dick smiled, plastering the fake lie on to his face, the noise of the bar replaced with short, bright laughter:

 _"_ _We are not supposed to be drinking at these things!" she whispered, the giggle only just being held back._

 _"_ _I know, I know," Dick promised, still pressing the glass into her hand. "But we're only going to have the one, and we're going to share it." She laughed again, bringing the glass to her lips. He watched her eyes close as the liquid touched her tongue. In that instant, she was not all hard lines and quick thoughts. If only for a second she was laughter and questionable decisions, she was letting loose that bit of fire that always teased him. "Well," he asked, "How is it?" Dick hadn't been ready for her answer:_

 _"_ _See for yourself." Instead of handing him the glass, she had set it down on the other side of the little table's leg. Far enough away so that they wouldn't risk knocking it over as they competed for space in the tiny alcove two floors above the party they were trying to avoid. Instead of offering to share the glass of whiskey he'd lifted, she pulled him in by the lapels of his tux and kissed him. Her mouth had been open and warm, and after the initial shock, Dick had done everything he could to chase that fire, tasting the whiskey, and loving every second of it. They repeated the process at least four or five times until the glass was empty, and they both breathless, her head tucked into his neck._

 _"_ _I love you," he whispered into the crown of her hair. He hadn't really meant for her to hear it, but of course she did._

 _"_ _I know you think you do," she said with a sigh. At least she didn't pull away, but he tried to shift so that she'd have to look at him._

 _"_ _Babs, I do mean it." She resisted the movement, nuzzling into his neck._

 _"_ _Shhh, Dick, not now, don't ruin it."_

Back in the present, Dick raised the glass back to his lips, downing what he knew he was supposed to sip. Yeah, it still burned. But it didn't burn nearly enough to purge that memory, or so many others that he wanted to forget. Glancing over the selection of liquors behind the bar, he doubted there was anything _that_ strong.

The almost musical tone of a bottle shattering in some far corner of the bar brought him back to the dirty countertop in front of him. The volume in the already noisy bar increased a couple more decibels as Dick physically felt the crowd drift away from the alcohol and towards the livelier show forming in the back.  
"Hey!" Dick could see Isaac farther down the bar, pointing towards the miscreants in the back. "You gents want to fight? Take it outside." Another bottle breaking was the only answer he got. As the good bartender started to round the counter with a cricket bat, Dick was on his feet, placing a hand in his chest.

"I got this." He followed his words with a wink, and Isaac's face told him everything he needed to know. _So typically American_.

"Be careful, Pretty Boy" Isaac quipped, leaning on the wooden bat, still eyeing the looming fight warily. "Those guys look kind of big."  
"I'm tougher than I look." He flashed another smile as he turned from the bar, sliding his hands down his jeans to remove the last of the glass's moisture. Dick stepped his way through the crowd, already catching a glimpse of the two men who were fighting. One man was bigger than he was, wore a beat-up brown leather jacket and had jet black hair. He was holding the second man's head down, delivering a casual knee every once in a while to his foe's midsection. The other man's flailing arms only occasionally landed ineffectual blows against Jacket Man's back.  
"Alright guys," Dick put a hand on a leather jacket clad shoulder. "Let's take this outside before something gets broken." Jacket Man offered a shrug and stepped away without turning back to face him. Maybe he thought Dick was a bartender. Maybe forcing the other man to simulate a sexual act while being kneed in the stomach was enough action for one night. Either way, Dick was glad he wouldn't have to fight both men at the same time.

Perhaps he relaxed a little too much, because the man who'd been bent over now straightened up. He was taller than Dick and much, much heavier. In the instant between the larger man's hand cocking back and it impacting with his jaw, Dick realized he'd made a terrible mistake.  
For a lesser man, or at least one who hadn't spent their teenage years trading blows with Gotham City's underbelly on a nightly basis, that punch might have knocked them out. It sent Dick staggering just a little bit more than he would have liked, but pride and, let's face it, just a little bit of ego forced him standing upright again.  
"Listen buddy, let's not make this any tougher than it has to be." On the very edges of his periphery, Dick could see Jacket Man downing a couple shots from a table that definitely wasn't his. But before he could say anything the larger drunk was charging, eyes wide and arms ready for another strike. Dick almost sighed aloud. This was going to be too easy.

Deftly sidestepping the man's barreling lunge, Dick grabbed his arm with one hand, the other planting firmly between his shoulder blades, and let the drunk's momentum fuel a somewhat graceful toss.  
Right into a group of bystanders. Spilling their drinks and sending them careening over a couple of tables in the process. _Damnit_ , Dick thought. Any hope of the other patrons blaming the large man for their wet clothes and wasted alcohol was quickly shattered as they rose, glaring his way instead.  
 _Double damnit_. "Well, you really fucked this one up, didn't ya?" Jacket Man's accent struck him. It was definitely American. What part of the country, Dick couldn't tell. He wasn't the best with accents. But to find another American here, in this country, in this dive bar, in the middle of a fight… well, maybe some stereotypes are true.

Dick was about to respond when a projectile that at one time held some of that piss beer went flying past his face and shattered against the wall behind him. Jacket Man pushed up his sleeves, revealing scarred and muscular forearms before leaping toward the crowd. Dick himself hopped onto a booth seat, dodging another flying glass, and then dove in as well.  
For the past few months, Dick had been doing different kinds of dancing. Flying through the air on the trapeze, that was a dance of its own kind; one where your partner was gravity and trust, a constant mix of daring and physics. And what he did every night recently… well, sometimes that was more simply gyrating than dancing, but the ladies could call it whatever they wanted as long as the tips were good.  
Fighting was also a dance, especially when Dick was involved. His background of the circus and the Dark Knight of Gotham gave him a unique fighting style, one that paired flips and dodges with precision punches and kicks to vulnerable organs. It had been called "flashy" before, usually in a derogatory way, by those frustrated by their inability to hit him.  
That thought was immediately followed by a searing trail of pain across his back. Dropping to one knee, Dick glanced up to see a patron - ratty turtleneck sweater, unkempt dark beard and hair, nose that looked like it had been run over by a Soviet tank a time or two – holding a pool cue in two beefy hands.

The man swung again, this time aiming for Dick's face, but the former hero was ready. Rolling under the swing, he grabbed the man's wrists and twisted. A sharp crack was followed by a howl of pain and the pool cue clattering to the ground. Picking up the improvised weapon,

Dick snapped it in half over his knee, turning the cue into something that resembled escrima sticks.

There was a pressure against his back, but not in a threatening way. A quick glance over his shoulder caught a glimpse of beat up brown leather and a smattering of blood over scarred fists. For the first time, Dick noticed that his jet black hair contained a streak of white in the very

front. He didn't realize he'd been fighting on the side of Pepé Le Pew.

As the crowd surrounding them began to contract in a mass of sneers and threatening postures, Dick contemplated the life choices that had led him to fight on the side of Skunk Man. Side note: _Worst. Alter-ego. Ever_. Sighing, he readied himself into a fighting stance. While Dick had sincerely hoped to keep his promise to Isaac about not breaking anything, it looked like things were about to get really messy.

"Hope you're able to handle yourself, friend." Dick could have sworn he heard something of a scoff from Skunk Man before they both launched themselves at the crowd nearly simultaneously. He was impressed. Most people wouldn't have the stones to jump headfirst into a fight with these odds.

But now Dick was in his element.

Though he hadn't fought in months, nearly a decade of training didn't just disappear. Adrenaline and instinct took over as Dick worked his way through the crowd, wood, feet, and fists connecting with anyone who came near him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Skunk Man punching and brawling his way through a mass of bodies. The man's elbows connected with faces, knees to sternums. He even bounced a few heads off the edge of the pool table in the center of the bar.

While the odds at the beginning of the fight had seemed a little outlandish, some of the patrons now seemed to be considering that rather than spend a night in the hospital, they'd rather just finish their drinks. Some at the edges of the brawl began sitting back down, and through the flashes of violence, Dick could have sworn he saw a few of them placing bets.  
The glimmer of metal caught his eye. A burly man, all chest hair and muscles, who smelled so much of vodka Dick could swear those cartoon squiggly lines were coming off his body, held what could only be described as a prison shiv in his hand as he charged forward. Sidestepping the man's initial charge, Dick rapped the man's knuckles with his pool cue escrima stick. The shiv clattered to the ground. One side swipe across the man's temple and another quick stab with the broken end of the stick into his shoulder left the bar patron dazed and bleeding. Smiling, Dick lined up his finishing blow, almost a little cocky at this point. Okay, a _lot_ cocky at this point. Taking a step forward and spinning his body around, Dick's foot impacted squarely with the man's chest, sending him flying back towards the bar.  
Which is where Skunk Man caught him by the throat. It was one of those moments right out of a movie, where the entire room goes silent. The other American calmly pulled the much larger man to him and said loud enough for the entire bar to hear, "Don't ever even think of coming near me again, _seronja_." Dick recognized the Serbian swear, he'd heard it enough times directed his way over guys unhappy their ladies were paying him too much attention.

Skunk Man casually held the other man out at nearly arm's length, and then delivered a crushing elbow across his jaw. The final patron crumpled to the ground. Silence reigned a few more seconds before the typical late-night din returned.

Dick dropped the shattered pool cue on a table as he walked over to Skunk Man. The other American deserved his thanks, and a drink. But just as he reached for the man's shoulder, he turned, and Dick froze. He hadn't recognized him during the fight. There were too many other things to worry about. And you know that saying about not recognizing people you know when they turn up in unexpected places? Yeah, well, you couldn't get more unexpected than this.

The man in front of his was older than the last time he'd seen him. His hair was different, he was bigger, more muscular. The exposed parts of his arms showed a plethora of scars that hadn't been there before. But his eyes… they held a few more years of horror and pain, but at their core they were still the same scared eyes that had peaked out from behind the Batmobile in an alley all those years ago. And there was, of course, that supposed to be dead thing.  
"Jay… Jason?" Dick could barely get the name out. The man's face registered shock, recognition, and anger in quick succession.  
"Oh, fuck me." Dick saw Jason's fist speeding through his peripheral vision, and his final thought was only that this greeting was oddly appropriate.

His head hurt. It hurt a lot. Dick hadn't been knocked out like that in… well… in a really long time. His first instinct was to push the hair out of his eyes and then take inventory. Hopefully, by the time he got to the opening his eyes part, things would have stopped spinning enough for him to think clearly, because he was pretty sure that he'd just been knocked out by Jason Todd. Who had been dead. For more than three years.

Dick wiggled his fingers, and then froze. His wrists were tied behind his back. Well, _that_ wasn't great. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the dim lighting. His eyes swept from side to side, trying to get a grasp on where he was without moving his aching head. Looking around, Dick saw a room not unlike the one he had been renting for about two weeks now. The walls were bare; there was a bed and a desk, and not much else. Taking a deep breath, Dick caught the smell of cigarette smoke. He closed his eyes again; this was too much.

 _"_ _What are you doing out here?" Dick demanded, popping his head out the third floor window._

 _Jason, his leather jacket still big on him, just smirked at him._

 _"_ _What does it look like, Dickie?" he asked, waving the lit cigarette in Dick's direction. The smoke curled from it's glowing tip before the younger boy brought it back to his mouth._

 _"_ _Jason, you're fucking fifteen years old." Dick scolded, dragging his body out the window._

 _"_ _You know, I get yelled at for swearing."_

 _"_ _You're fifteen!" Dick all but shouted._

 _"_ _And you're so high and mighty at seventeen. Do Bruce and Al know you cures like a sailor when they're not around?"_

 _Dick ignored him, pulling his knees up to his chest beside him on the rooftop. "You are literally pulling carcinogens into your body right now, you know that?"_

 _"_ _Whatever," Jason replied, taking another drag. The butts of two more were stubbed out beside him._

 _"_ _Jay…" Dick tried again, reaching his hand out for the cigarette. "What's going on?" Instead of handing it over, Jason stubbed it out on the shingles. He turned to Dick with a scowl._

 _"_ _You know exactly what's going on," he accused. "Every day, he's pushing more and more; do this, don't do that, my rules, blah blah blah." Jason cracked the knuckles of both hands, a show a nerves now that they were empty._

 _"_ _Jason… he…" But Dick didn't have an answer._

 _"_ _Don't try and defend him. You couldn't handle it either." Jason said, the exhaustion in his voice evident. "I know it's why you moved out. Why you left."_

"I know you're awake," the voice behind him growled, bringing Dick back to the present. His lifted his head, slowly turning it to try and find the speaker. The guy was good, intentionally sticking to Dick's blind spots.

"Jason?" Dick tried tentatively. He shifted his wrists, getting a feel for the ropes and the knot work. The other man didn't answer, but Dick could still hear him rustling around behind him. He flexed his arms next, the roughness of the rope coiled around his upper biceps and chest. The scratch of the rope rubbing against his bare skin. Dick looked down, sighing dramatically.

"Jason, why am I naked?" The snort from behind him was instant.

"You're not," he corrected. "I left you your dignity, if you can call it that." Dick shifted his hips and butt against the hard wood of the chair. His work… _uniform_ … thin and bright blue, had been left on to keep him covered. Not that it covered much. Dick tried turning head as far as he could to the side, and could hear the man behind him moving to stay in the shadows, just out of sight.

On the table to his left, all of the things Dick had had on his body were spread out across the desk: His room key, a stack of cash, his shirt, black pants, and his parents' rings – still left on their leather cord.

"Jason, _please_ ," Dick begged, licking his lips. This was too much. Dick felt completely exhausted, from work, from the bar brawl, and now _this?_ None of this made sense. His heart wanted it to be true – wanted to see his brother back to life, but his brain knew that the world didn't work that way. His voice small, he whispered, " _This isn't real. You're dead."_ The man behind him snorted again, moving quickly to crouch down in front of him, putting him at eye level, but just out of reach.

"I was," he rasped back, a dangerous looking smile on his face. "I got better." It was Jason alright. Dick was surer of it now than anything in his life. And it still didn't seem possible. It _wasn't_ possible that _Jason Todd_ was here, alive, and speaking to him.

"Jay…" Dick's mind raced with questions. Where had he been? How was he alive? What had he been doing? Why hadn't he come home? Too many questions, not enough answers. His head started to hurt at the enormity of it all.

"How long have you been alive?" The blurted question wasn't the most delicate, but it got the point across. If his skunk-haired formally-dead possibly-zombie younger brother was taken aback by it, he didn't show it. With an exaggerated shrug, Jason looked down at his wrist. There wasn't a watch there.

"Three years, six months, eighteen days, sixteen hours… and twenty-eight minutes. Give or take a few seconds." A familiar half-smirk pulled at the side of his lips and Dick honestly couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"This is insane…"

"A little." Dick heard the scrape of metal on cloth and found himself staring into the barrel of a rather large pistol. Black paint was chipped away, and he swore he could detect the faint smell of gunpowder. Maybe it was his imagination, but he was pretty sure that gun had been used recently. Dick's breath caught in his chest, eyes widening.

"What are you doing?" The demand seemed to hang in the room for a moment. Jason's half-smirk grew to something more predatory, almost menacing. He shrugged.

"Put that away," Dick said, raising his head a little. He had no idea if that made him look more defiant or not. "You're not going to use it."

"Oh, you don't know that, Dickie Bird. I haven't decided yet."

"You would have done it already, Jay." Another shrug followed.

"Maybe." With a suddenness that surprised him, Dick felt the cool muzzle pressing against his temple. "Maybe I just wanted you awake before I did." Closing his eyes, Dick forced his breathing back under control.

"I'm not afraid of you, Jay." His reply was pushed out through clenched teeth.

"You should be." The gun moved away from his temple, sliding down his face and tapping his chin. "I did knock you out."

"Yeah, thanks for that," Dick grimaced, the lights in the room still hurting his eyes a bit. "You really need to work on your people skills, you know that?" Jason ignored his statement, instead tracing the gun down across Dick's chest, slowly tapping it against each of the colored birds that dotted his skin.

"Look at you. The Golden Boy rebelling against the Big Man's rules. Those are some pretty impressive identifying marks, Dickie Bird." The older man tried to pull back from the interrogation, but the chair and bindings prevented him from going anywhere. He needed to change the subject.

"Jason, where have you been? What happened to you?" Silence hung in the room again as Jason didn't answer. Instead, the gun tapped against the two blue birds, one right after the other.

"Your parents, right?" For the first time, a hint of concern flashed through his younger brother's eyes. "Don't worry. Their rings are still on the table. I know what they mean to you." Hope surged within Dick. Some of the old Jason still did exist in there somewhere. He just had to hold onto it.

"Jason, come on man. Untie me. Let me get dressed. Let's talk like normal people." Whatever momentary warmth had been in Jason's eyes faded as he deftly flipped the pistol around in his hand, holding the barrel as he tapped the grip against the final bird.

"Is this one supposed to be you, Dickie? Out here all alone?" Dick clenched his teeth, irritation seething through him. He raised his eyes to meet Jason's, holding him with the closet approximation he could get to Bruce's trademarked glare. After almost a minute, Jason's eyes grew wide and he turned his back to Dick. As his body shook, Dick knew he realized what the final tattoo was. But instead of sobs, a low rumbling laugh came from the larger man.

"Fuck," Jason said, laughing as he slapped his leg, "that's supposed to be me, isn't it?"

"I thought you were dead! Everyone does!" Knowing his brother, there probably weren't too many people living near him. But if there were, well, that certainly was going to sounded strange out of context.

"I told you," Jason's voice was low and steely, all mirth disappearing. "I was."

"How is that even possible?"

"Like I said, _I. Got. Better_." He paused for a moment, sliding the pistol back to its spot in the back of his pants. "Or possibly worse, depending on how you look at it."

"Jason…" A wave his brother's hand cut him off.

"Lazarus Pit. The al Ghuls got involved." Jason sighed dramatically. "You know how it goes."

"But… we buried…"

"Yeah, don't care. My turn." Quickly, Jason was back standing over him again, his looming bulk eclipsing his older brother. "How did you find me? Does Bruce already know I'm here?" There was a hint of manic in his voice, and though the gun was holstered again, Dick didn't like its chances of staying there.

"Bruce? What? No. I…" He paused. What could he say? At the moment, it was probably best to stick to the truth. "I left."

Jason threw his head back, laughter coming much louder and sharper this time. "You actually expect me to believe that, Golden Boy? You could barely drag yourself away from Gotham and even then, you only crossed the river." A short sigh escaped Dick's lips as his gaze fell to the floor and his shoulders sagged forward.

"No one knows I'm here." He paused, closing his eyes. "I'd rather keep it that way."

"Yeah, I call bullshit." Jason's eyes narrowed as Dick looked up to meet his gaze. "Not a chance in hell Babs would have just let you…" Dick's jaw had gone rigid at the mention of Barbara. He tried to look away, but Jason had already caught his tell. "Huh. Touchy subject."

"Untie me." Dick fought to keep the ice out of his voice.

"Do it yourself," Jason said as he turned to walk back to the small desk where Dick's affects were spread out. "The Dick Grayson I remember would have been out already." Pulling out a chair and sitting down, Jason began cleaning his gun on the desk. Sighing heavily, Dick began to struggle again with the ropes.

More than a good two minutes later, he was finally free. Rope burns covered his bare arms and wrists, and Dick could feel their sting as sweat ran over them. "You've gotten better with your knots," he offered, trying to keep any exertion out of his voice.

"Or you've just gotten slow." Jason still kept his back to him, hunched over his weapon. "I watched you fighting. You're not as good as I remember." That was rude. Dick bunched up the rope that had bound him, throwing it between Jason's shoulder blades.

"I'm plenty good," he corrected, still standing by the chair. "You were also a kid the last time you saw me fight." There had been no reaction from Jason when the rope hit him, but as he slowly turned Dick could see a pistol, a different one than before, peeking out from around his side pointed directly at him.

Dick had no idea where he had been hiding that one.

"Maybe don't throw things at the guy with a gun." Jason paused. " _Guns._ " Dick raised an eyebrow, still not impressed by the threat. "Oh Jesus Christ, put some fucking clothes on. You look like a stripper." Dick let out a snort as he walked over to the desk, reaching for his pants first.

"Wouldn't have been an issue if you'd left my fucking clothes on in the first place."

Jason let out a long whistle as he turned back to cleaning his gun. "Well, look at you with your big boy swears. Someone's grown up while I've been gone." The younger man paused to blow a minuscule speck of dust off the trigger assembly. "I had to make sure you weren't bugged, you idiot." He glanced over. "And I'm pretty sure those pants used to be mine."

Dick rolled his eyes as he continued dressing, shoving his money and keys back into his pockets. He finished by placing the cord with his parents' rings back around his neck. With a satisfying snap, Jason finished putting his pistol back together before looking up at Dick. His brow furrowed as he kicked out another chair at the desk. Dick figured it was as much as an invitation to sit as he was going to get.

"So. Why'd you leave?" Dick let out a short laugh. Not one filled with mirth or warmth. No, this laugh was cold and full of bitterness. He noticed a brief flicker of surprise across Jason's otherwise stoic face.

"A lot's happened since you've been gone." Now it was Jason's turn to snort.

"No kidding. It's been a few years." Leaning down, Jason yanked open a drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Without a word, he poured a healthy portion into each glass and slid one towards Dick.  
"Jason, you're not twenty-one."  
"Neither are you, Dickie Bird." Jason took a long sip of his drink. "But I died. I'm going to fucking drink." There really wasn't an appropriate comeback to that, so Dick simply raised the glass to his mouth and let his body welcome that old familiar burn again.

After they'd both drained their glasses, Jason grabbed his and began to pour another. But the younger man continued to look expectantly at his older brother. Dick sighed as he took the glass back, taking a slow sip before he began.

"It all started with the Kroloteans…"


End file.
